Out of reach of the flames
by A Drop of Starlight
Summary: A touch of color and he springs to life. /Spamano


**A/N:** Not M because there's no explicit violence, etc., but still not for the faint of heart. You have been warned!

* * *

 _Nothing is ever as it seems, and never as it is...  
Reality is merely a construct of the mind._

* * *

A ghostly light blinks, the leering darkness crawls to its shadowy home, and it takes Lovino several minutes to hear his alarm clock's steady rings, announcing the promise of a new day. He's learned not to trust its promises anymore, at least not entirely. But he still throws off the blankets and rolls out, the wooden floorboards cold as death under his bare feet, and pads out the door looking for the second occupant of his – _their_ – bed.

It's not his fault he's in a bad mood today. Last night was the latest in a string of nightmares, involving a green-eyed man hovering around him, all around him, laughing eerily and melting into the ground. It's not his fault he's in a bad mood today because his mind keeps playing tricks on him. Antonio's still here, and none of Lovino's many fears can erase the reality of his presence.

"Antonio," he yells as soon as he sets foot on the stairs, and there's no reply as usual, but the kettle humming and the melodic scent of ground coffee is enough of an answer for him. He doesn't have to look to know where Antonio is; Lovino knows all his hiding places by now, but still plays along for the heck of it, because the Spaniard loves these little games. "Antonio, damn it," he goes on anyway, "if you're not at the table in two minutes I'm starting breakfast without you."

A moment later he's seated, steaming mug in hand and a smiling Spanish face in the chair across from him, just like the old days.

"Bastard," Lovino mutters, although he doesn't mean it, and takes a sip, the scalding liquid running down his throat. "You could have woken me up too, you know."

Antonio's only response is another smile, as if to say, "Were you worried? That's so cute, Lovi." And Lovino's okay with that, okay with the silence, because since that one day there was no trying anymore. It doesn't matter if Antonio can't say a single word _although he misses his voice like hell_ because his eyes hold everything he's ever wanted to express and that's enough for Lovino.

So for a split second he smiles back, and Antonio's face glows with fondness.

"You need to eat," he says matter-of-factly, gesturing to Antonio's untouched mug and plate. The idiot doesn't even seem to notice; apparently today is one of the days he wants to watch Lovino eat first. Lovino groans, picks up a piece of toast and shoves it toward Antonio's mouth. Some of it crumbles over the Spaniard's chin and Lovino laughs at how stupid he looks, before wiping it off because he's a good boyfriend.

"Fine. If you want me to taste the food first, I will."

He does so, and if he ever whispers "You're the best cook ever" to the waiting silence, no one ever heard except him and Antonio. Behind them, in the waiting hallway, the grandfather clock tolls menacingly for 8 a.m.

Antonio leans against the doorframe as Lovino readies himself to leave. It's a standard morning ritual that always takes a minimum of five minutes: Lovino adjusts his bookbag, checks for his phone and art supplies, makes sure he's wearing the right clothes and looks to Antonio for approval. Which is always there in the Spaniard's loving eyes.

"See you later, Antonio," whispers Lovino, and because he'll never get enough of that one simple fact, he adds, "I love you."

He misses all those days when Antonio would tell him so, every morning and every night, when he himself was too shy to say it back and so he lost the chance. But he's making up for it now, and he leans in for a peck on the lips. The kiss isn't nearly as soft as the ones they used to exchange, because Antonio's gotten older and Lovino knows that, and the Spaniard's lips are a bit dry and cold from the low temperature of their living room. But he's okay with that. He knows his own mouth feels the same way. Maybe he'll get Chapstick and pay someone to install a heater when he has the time.

As he walks down the driveway to the street he turns back just once. Antonio's hand is lifted in a parting wave, that perpetual wonderful smile on his lips, and Lovino returns it all.

Despite the soft whistle of the wind, the voice of a forgotten winter song, that twines around him and the trees and everything else in its path, Lovino's heart feels warmer as he tramps through the fallen leaves to the train station just a block away.

* * *

He always misses Antonio more when he's working far from home.

The students, most of them well acquainted with him and his history by now, have learned not to speak up unless absolutely necessary. Today is somewhat of an off day; everyone's looking forward to going home for Thanksgiving, so all around the room is the soft sound of pencils scratching on paper, miscellaneous sketches and miniature works of art. Lovino adds to it by playing on low volume a Spanish song, lighthearted and gentle, Antonio's favorite. A small group of kids in the back are whispering, occasionally glancing over at Lovino, probably in fear of being called out; but the Italian decides to be lenient today and pulls out his own sketchbook instead.

He turns to a fresh blank page and inhales the sweet scent of new paper, pencil already perched between his fingers. There's something comforting about art, the way he can always pin things down into concrete reality, possess them, simply by setting them on paper. Lovino closes his eyes and thinks. Conjures up the image of a brown-haired, green-eyed, smiling, mischievous man in his twenties, and it works. It drives away the haze that's been creeping up more and more these past few days.

"Antonio, you dumbass," he says fondly under his breath. "Always haunting me at the worst times."

And before he even knows it the face has appeared on his paper, perfect features and all. It's almost not surprising anymore; he's spent so many years daydreaming about Antonio and sketching him in the margins of books, on scraps of lined paper, any canvas he could find, to make him perfect. _His._ And now he _is_ perfect, he _is_ Lovino's and the Italian is so happy.

A touch of color and he springs to life.

"Is that your boyfriend?" asks a blond boy with very bushy eyebrows, one of the kids from the chattering group in the back, and Lovino doesn't know when he dismissed class or even when the bell rang, but suddenly it's only the two of them in the room. Lovino distantly remembers the boy's name as Arthur.

"That – that's none of your business," Lovino retorts, and he can feel the carefully constructed face of well-being begin to slip. "Why don't you go on home now?"

But the boy Arthur still stares so intensely at the picture that Lovino snatches it back and tucks it into his bag, where Antonio can be safe from prying eyes.

"I see you drawing him a lot, Mr. Vargas. You must really be obsessed with him."

"As I just said, it's none of your business," Lovino replies, trying to keep his voice even. "If you keep questioning me I'll have to send you to the principal."

Arthur looks up at him then, and his eyes are so green Lovino almost has to look away. They're almost the same color as Antonio's but not as soft; these hold a piercing gaze, as if they can travel to the depths of Lovino's soul.

"I know what you've been doing," he says, and the matter-of-fact tone, echoing in the empty room, sends a momentary chill down Lovino's spine. "I know, and it's not right. I suggest you stop, and I mean it."

And before Lovino can leap for him he's out the door, silently as a ghost, leaving a quick feeling in Lovino's chest like his heart might fall out between his ribs. The papers on his desk ruffle slightly, but that's the miniature fan blowing; the classroom is empty otherwise. No sign of his having been here at all. Perhaps, Lovino thinks to himself, the conversation never happened in the first place. Perhaps he's only been dreaming.

Yes, of course. Just dreaming.

Now he only wants to go home. Go home to Antonio, and his warmth, and his warm security.

* * *

Lovino's been anxious to get home since the (real? fake? dream?) incident with the kid in his classroom, but instead he's stuck in the 30-minute departmental meeting scheduled so conveniently for this afternoon. The minute it ends he sprints down the hall, hitches a bus ride in favor of the crowded trains, and arrives at his street in the nick of time. He steps off and sees the group of kids from his class turning down a corner at the end of the block.

So that's why Arthur knows about him. He and the other students live near enough to hear the rumors, the ones Lovino can't dispel because he hasn't got Antonio to speak for him. He lets out a breath through his nose and begins walking, his step steadier than before. It was nothing after all; simply Lovino overreacting. He's been doing too much of that lately. A new prescription is probably in order.

But all reassurance flees his mind when he reaches the leaf-covered driveway and doesn't see Antonio at the door.

Lovino breaks into a run, clearing the three porch steps in one go, and rattles at the door, fumbling with his keys. "Antonio!" he shouts. "Antonio, are you in there? Answer me!"

There's no answer as usual, and Lovino's heart beats wild and fast in his chest, and he shoves one key after another into the lock amid shaking curses until he finally, blessedly finds the right one.

The Spaniard's familiar and comforting shape still leans by the door, somewhat shaded as the light slants the other way, and Lovino breathes a sigh of relief as he drops down to untie his shoes and let fall his bag. He slams the door behind him, locks it in case any prying kids show up at the porch, and goes to his room to find his desk. Specifically a drawer which he keeps locked until stressful times like these.

Lovino isn't even halfway through the door when he sees the lock open and smashed on the floor.

He shouts and runs to the drawer, pawing frantically inside for the small white package bound with string he's always kept for a reason. He finds it and unravels it with shaking hands, the whole thing not bigger than his palm, and runs his fingers through the musty-smelling powder he loves. It looks a little redder by sunset, but that's it, it's there, it's always there. No one's moved it.

It's Lovino's. Lovino's alone and no one can take it.

When he's done he puts it back, everything just as it was before, except the lock is broken and he has to go downstairs for a new one.

"Antonio," he says finally, voice still a little trembly, "Antonio, did you move anything in there?"

As long as it's Antonio it's fine. But the fact that Antonio never would and never could touch anything of Lovino's is what makes his blood run cold. A sudden suspicion enters Lovino's mind and he's shouting again, stampeding down the stairs to look for his boyfriend.

He sees Antonio propped at the foot of the stairs and lets out a shriek.

" _Antonio_! Antonio, _no_!"

His boyfriend – his beloved Spaniard – his wonderful smiling face is gone. Melted black drips out of the eyes, the eyelashes, running down the perfect tanned skin like a dead girl's kohl. The face itself is blurred color, the once upturned lips leaking red and open almost in a scream.

A scream of accusation.

Lovino covers his eyes and runs. Falls over furniture, crawls over carpet. That was only one. One. He has more. Antonio is still alive.

Antonio's frame at the table, the plate still before him. Lovino reaches for his face and his mouth opens and he snatches his hand back.

Eyes stitched shut with black thread, mouth bound in white tape, the gaping hole in his chest spilling crimson onto the table.

Lovino chokes, a sob making its way through his throat.

Everywhere is the same. Antonio melting, Antonio cut open, Antonio drooling black, Antonio reaching reaching reaching for him with his mouth wide, a dark cavern of indescribable, soundless joy. His work of art, his Antonio. Dead. Lovino trips and falls hard on his way to the door, before the final Spaniard, and buries his face in the ground as the rattling pain in his limbs subsides.

This is his last hope. His last hope.

He looks up.

Antonio's smile.

It's still there.

Lovino's tears burst forth then, a torrent of sadness, and he hauls himself to his feet as his vision blurs before him.

"Antonio," he chokes, reaching for the Spaniard, "A-Antonio, I thought you were _gone_ –"

The cavernous, boneless eye sockets meet his and he lets out a strangled cry.

" _No_!"

Antonio still grins at him, that wonderful glowing expression now tinted dark. He still stands there, utterly silent, flat against the wall; but as Lovino watches in horrified fascination, words begin to appear on the canvas behind him. In the white paint he never uses with Antonio because it reminds him too much of death.

 ** _You t_** ** _ook my heart_**

 ** _Give i_** ** _t back to me_**

"What... what do you mean, Antonio, I – I don't –"

 ** _In y_** ** _our desk_**

 ** _Give i_** ** _t back_**

Lovino gasps for air. "I – you gave it to me, Antonio, you said I could have it! You promised, I – _we_ promised!"

 ** _A f_** ** _air trade_** ** _Lovi_**

"NO!"

 ** _DO IT_**

Sobbing. "A-Antonio, please –"

 ** _I love you_**

 ** _Give m_** ** _e yours_**

 ** _Sweet_** ** _Lovi_** ** _..._**

* * *

He screams, a high-pitched lingering sound, and stumbles to the kitchen where he pulls out a knife.


End file.
